


Snowed In

by lazily_astray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazily_astray/pseuds/lazily_astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you save yourself from killing your guests out of the sheer boredom of being snowed in?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowed In

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Let's Write Sherlock challenge 9, the winter ficlet challenge :)  
> And a whole bunch of thanks to flower_crowned for beta reading this!.  
> Also, you should totally tell me how to improve, okay? Do it for love. Do it for lesser crappy fics in this world.  
> Update: I've formatted it again. Should be better to read now.

 

Sherlock was toying around with some chemicals in the kitchen when the doorbell rang; the speed of the ringing announced the long-awaited arrival of Mycroft. He stretched his back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. _Let's get this over with_.

"Yeah, no problem, I'll get it! Don't bother." Sherlock could hear the sarcasm dripping from John's voice. Mrs. Hudson was out and so John had to make it all the way downstairs, drenched, in his towel in the unbearable cold. Sherlock could clearly hear all his shocked swears as the frosty wind blew in through the door. The pretty much naked man rushed upstairs almost slipping on every step. Mycroft closed the door behind him and walked past John sing his umbrella to slightly push him aside so he could walk by.

"I pray you're ready Sherlock. It wouldn't do us good to be la-" Mycroft somewhat gaped at his little brother. "What were you doing all this time! Do hurry!" Mycroft wavered his umbrella about, gesturing Sherlock to get a move on it. But Sherlock apparently didn't get the clue and stood there with a furrowed brow.

"What are you talking about? I'm perfectly ready."

"Sherlock, this is not the Queen we're going to visit. You have to put in more effort than to simply wear pants."

"I am wearing a _lot_ more than pants, if you haven't observed. Look, this is a shirt, this is a suit vest, this is my coat," he put in one arm, "and this is my scarf. Let's go." He walked to the door brushing past his brother agitatedly, but Mycroft caught him by the sleeve he hadn't put his arm through and pulled him back.

"Sherlock, mummy's invited many people, many dignitaries, and I will _not_ have you waltzing around with chemical stains all over your clothes! Go change!"

"I doubt anyone won't be thick enough to spot any of them."

"But the strong smell's enough to get them wondering about the atrocity."

Sherlock groaned. John had long ago gone back to the shower to wash off the remaining conditioner, and came out with his clothes on while drying his hair with the towel. There was no point in staying any longer inside enjoying the hot gush of water when the two siblings were bickering relentlessly outside. Sherlock pulled his coat from Mycroft's grip sharply and turned towards John upon sight.

"John! Tell Mycroft I look perfectly fine."

"John, tell your friend he looks absolutely ridiculous."

"John, tell Mycroft if we're any later all the cake will be finished."  
John decided to interrupt right there before there was any bloodshed, though he was sick of being stuck in the middle.

"Sherlock, I think it would be a good idea for you to change. Mycroft's right," John was shot with Sherlock's upset glare. "But, er, he doesn't look all that bad, Mycroft, he doesn't _not_ look dashing-" Mycroft snorted.

"He's always dashing for you. You'd say that even if he were wearing a clown suit."

"Mycroft, _I'm not_ -", Mycroft interrupted again with impatience.

"We don't have time for this," he exclaimed, as he walked into Sherlock's bedroom, "let me _pick something out_ for you."

Sherlock followed him in, clearly wanting to protest. "I'm not a child, Mycroft. Don't go rummaging in my closet!" Sherlock caught a jumper as it came flying out. Mycroft, being the proper man he was, would never as much leave a chance for a wrinkle to creep up in any clothes. But now that he was so un-sacredly flinging them about, it could be inferred how late they were getting and more importantly, how much this dinner party meant to him. Though he did a great job at hiding it, he was tremendously nervous. It was crucial to hide it in front of his little brother and his flatmate.

"Look at your quivering arm and rushed speech. You're so nervous it's despicable." John shrugged his shoulders at Sherlock's remark. Mycroft dropped everything he was about to fling next and let out a loud, irritated but relieving deep sigh.

"Just. Cooperate."

The two second silence broke when Mycroft's phone rang.

"Yes, hello? ... what do you mean the blizzard's too heavy? We came by just fine," John pulled the curtain back to see outside. Everything was blocked by the heavy snow falling rather prettily. It was the white winter everyone had hoped for, had it been a few days early in time for Christmas. "Is there absolutely no way to drive us to the dinner party? ... Alright, fine. You are dismissed from duty for the night."  
Mycroft almost threw his phone across the room.

"Looks like we're snowed in, boys."

Sherlock almost let out a smile. He definitely had not been looking forward to smile and shake the hands of people with painfully obvious low IQ's.

"Shut up Sherlock, I'm stuck here for god knows how long."

That was enough for his smile to drop.

* * *

  
"Sherlock, you ought to inform mummy we won't be able to make it," Mycroft called out from his armchair to the kitchen. Sherlock was back in, experimenting. He'd started just to pass the time, but now he found himself enjoying purposefully being on the brink of danger, almost exploding the entire apartment with every chemical he'd make a new concoction of. He wasn't worried about the wastage. The lab would give him more chemicals, surely.

"You tell her."

"Sherlock, I'm your older brother and by law you have to do what I say." Sherlock straightened up to turn to Mycroft, "You just said you're old, well, 'older', but they're basically the same thing for you, so you're in charge of taking care of this." He went back to his chemicals, right before returning again.

"And _by law_? Mycroft honestly how scared are you?" Mycroft rose from his seat, and so John was forced to pull away from his blog and quickly stand in between the brothers before they got any closer. Anything closer to exploding the apartment than the chemicals were those two.  
  
"I'll do it, if you don't mind. Mummy's- er, Mrs. Holmes' number please?" The older Holmes dialled the number and handed his phone over gratefully.  
  
"Er, hello, Mrs. Holmes? No, this is Dr. John Watson, Sherlock's- Yes, it's lovely speaking to you as well. Er, the blizzard's actually very strong right now and I'm afraid the absolutely _loving_ boys won't be able to make it. Oh you've heard about it? I hope most of your guests could make it. Oh? That's a shame. Yes, yes..." John trailed off away into his own room to continue the conversation.  


"You could learn a thing or two from your flatmate."

"You could learn to get balls that big."

"Why do you know he's got-"  
John came back in to return the phone.

"I don't understand what's the problem. Your mother is absolutely delightful. I think she likes me so far," his joy was rather apparent.

"Good. The mother-in-law likes him."

"Mycroft! I'm not- I don't-" He sighed and walked away to the kitchen. To get what, he didn't know, but he really needed to resist the urge to throw things at a government official. Ignoring the severed hand in the refrigerator, he came back with three glasses and a bottle of scotch. Making tea was of course his first instinct, but he figured he'd need something much stronger to get through the evening. "How about some television to distract ourselves from our murderous tendencies?" Though the brothers insisted on staying sober, they agreed to invest in distraction. They didn't want blood on their hands. John and Sherlock sat on the sofa, and Mycroft remained at the armchair. The first thing the tele showed was a popular crime series. Shooting each other urgent glances, John frantically switched the channel. It would be a disaster to watch it with Sherlock. He'd either come down to the conclusion within five minutes of the show, or he would obsess over how incredulous everyone is and make everyone present's lives hell when the episode wouldn't go according to him. The next channel on had just begun to air an episode of The Great British Bake Off. John understood it was necessary to switch the channel again for Mycroft's sake, and as he did, the detective grabbed the remote.

"Sherlock!"

He laid out his hand to demand the remote control back, but Sherlock rose his hand much beyond John's reach. John scoot further towards Sherlock to get a better chance at reclaiming the device, and Sherlock scoot further into the armrest. The short one got on his knees to gain height with difficult balance, almost falling over his friend, so Sherlock began pushing him away. John pushed Sherlock's head down as he began standing up on the sofa and Sherlock grabbed him with his free hand round the waist to prevent him from succeeding.  
  
"Oh my god look at Mycroft." Lestrade failed to notice the wrestling and gaped at Mycroft. The men quickly regained their distance on the sofa, hearing a sudden new voice in the room.

"Lestrade? How did you get in?"

"The door was unlocked. But more importantly, why does Mycroft look like he's having the best sex of his-" He glanced where the aloof person has his gaze at, "OH. I should've known it was cake." The three people took a moment to observe the clueless man.

"Okay, this is making me uncomfortable." John snatched the remote back, which Sherlock gave back barely resisting, and switched the channel to a children's show. Mycroft snapped out of it, shook his head, and cleared his throat.

"Lestrade? What made you come by?" Mycroft felt a bit confused as to what had just happened, and even more so at Lestrade's eerie grin.

"This was the closest place I could ride out the storm at." Lestrade found himself a free armchair and plopped down into that. He looked at what fresh hell the television brought. " _Teletubbies?_ I refuse to watch this abomination!"  
John shrugged. "It's most probably the safest thing on television right now."  
It was the following blackout that saved Lestrade's soul from the abomination. No one but Lestrade was quite as happy about it.

* * *

  
The men could tell it was pitch black everywhere, for the only illumination that came was from the light of the faint fire in the fireplace.

"Great. What do we do now?" Mycroft was not pleased. There was no way they'd survive through the night without killing each other.  
John was just waiting for blood to spill.

"Well it's bloody cold, I'll give you that." Lestrade rubbed his arms rapidly for at least some heat. Somehow, the lack of light magnified the lack of heat in the room, and now that Lestrade had mentioned it, everyone could feel it. The noise from the blizzard howling to it's full potent made it feel even more frosty.

"I'll go look for blankets." John got up, clutching himself in the vain attempt of preserving any heat and left for his quest. Sherlock felt the loss of John's body heat and hoped he rushed with the task. John finally came back with three heavy quilts piled up. He dropped two on his guests, and fell on the sofa next to Sherlock with the last. Tangled up in the large quilt, he regained his breath calmly. Until Sherlock nudged him.

"Where's my blanket?"

"It's your house too. Go get one yourself." John hadn't appreciated Sherlock not offering to help out throughout the day.

"But that blanket is large enough for the both of you. You just share," Mycroft suggested, as he tried to adjust his own quilt.  
Lestrade chimed in, "Yeah, why would you be needing two?" The two slightly grinned at each other.  
John sat up, "Why wouldn't we be needing two? This is ridiculous."

"Actually," Sherlock pulled at John's blanket, "sharing the blanket would be more reasonable choice considering how far we are from the warmth of the fire."

Before John could protest any further, he'd pulled half of the blanket over him, kicking off his shoes and getting cozy. John awaited the dragged on teasing, but fortunately the men in the armchairs were getting comfy themselves, kicking off their own shoes and placing their feet on the seats to keep them warm.

"Could you make some tea?" Everyone looked at John in anticipation.

"Fuck off." John had just gotten cosy himself, still maintaining the most distance he could from his companion without compromising any heat. "I mean, the light's out, I can't boil the water." He could feel everyone's hearts breaking. He didn't mind.

"Well, I've got some emergency brandy for these situations in my car. I'll be right back." Lestrade, being the bravest of them all, got out of the blanket and rushed off to get his emergency equipment.

"In that case, we've still got that scotch," John suggested.

"Yes, _please_." Mycroft couldn't turn scotch down a second time. John didn't mind getting out of the blanket for it.

"Doesn't it worry you, though, that a police officer's carrying around alcohol in his car as his emergency equipment?"

No one minded, especially because it played in their favour. Sherlock, however, didn't care at all. He'd rather turn to his cigarettes than alcohol, but sadly he was absolutely banned from them.  
Lestrade came back shivering from the cold, only to find out everyone but the detective was already enjoying glasses of scotch.

"I put my life in danger for nothing? Well, I'm going to take revenge, surely." He filled his glass with the scotch much more than he should have, and relaxed back into his chair.

Meanwhile, Sherlock shivered.

"I can't feel my face. It's close to freezing. I can't warm it with my miraculously warm hands because I will risk freezing them off too, and I can't put my head under the blanket for heat because that way I'd slowly be asphyxiated but it would hardly be convenient to let myself out for air every once in a while and-"

"Just drink some brandy. It makes you warm."

"I won't allow my senses to be numbed by alcohol."

"Oh, but you would with drugs? Just do it."

"It hardly makes sense John brandy will dilate my vessels to release all the heat in my which will warm me briefly but result in massive heat loss resulting to me freezing to death."

"You can't reason with him John," Mycroft called out, "he's afraid he can't handle his alcohol."

"Don't be incredulous. I just choose not to destroy any brain cells. Stop being preposterous."

"Oh really? Then why are you getting so defensive, brother dear?"

That was enough for Sherlock to snatch John's glass and gulp it all down in one go, without so much as exhaling. John reached for a new glass and poured in some more for himself, also refilling Sherlock's glass. The latter couldn't deny his freezing-to-death situation was getting better.

  
Half an hour later, John was required to open up a new bottle, _again_.

"Listen, this is the last bottle we have, so don't ask for more after."

"You've bought two over the past two months for yourself and this is also the perfect time to gift Mycroft and Lestrade their bottles." Sherlock seemed to have taken a liking.

"You were going to gift us scotch? How very dull," Mycroft remarked.

"I won't mind opening my present early though," Lestrade expressed.

"That's good then, because we already have. We've finished the other three bottles."

"Say _whaaaat?_ " Lestrade should've apparently been stopped before the last three glasses. Mycroft just smiled at the achievement. Sherlock however was trying to figure out could he not have kept track of the number glasses consumed by everyone. It baffled the great, temporarily numbed mind.

"Why didn't you stop us?"

"I'd rather have you all drunk and peaceful than sober and murderous."

"Shensible call." Sherlock patted John on the shoulder.

"What're we s'posed to do now?" Lestrade was a bit loud. John would suggest them to open up the officer's emergency brandy to keep them preoccupied, but alcohol poisoning seemed near everyone's limits. Mycroft began humming.

"Fur Elise? Dull."

"It's a classic masterpiece, you uncultured swine. I really, really, really like it." Mycroft swayed his head about.

"Sounds like a cat's got a sore throat." Sherlock began getting up to reach for his violin, but his centre of gravity had different plans, which made him topple right over John.

"Okay," he was seated on his side of the sofa, "forget the violin."

"What violin?"

"There we go." Sherlock would topple over the armrest, given his height, so John made him lean on to him.

"DA da DA da DA da dum-" Mycroft loudly continued with Fur Elise,

"da da da dum, da da da DUM-" Lestrade followed queue. The men had a moment when they caught each other's eyes, completing each other's symphonies. Mycroft felt complete. He took a deep breath for the next bit, but Lestrade interrupted as soon as he began.

"That's as fancy as I can get. I don't know the next bit." His singing partner looked disappointed.

"John, why do you still have all your ex girlfriends' phone numbers in here?" Sherlock had nicked John's phone from his pocket when he was trying to cover his ears in agony.

"No I don't!"

"The boring school teacher's shtill on here. You like her, don't you?"

"Give me my phone back!" Sherlock smirked.

"Now where have I heard that before."

"Sherlock I'm serious!" Unlike the time of the wrestling, drunk Sherlock was very easy to win over. He fell to the ground with as little as John pushing him.  
  
"…oh, _women_." John could see the elder brother was getting chatty. "They're so... very... complicated."

Lestrade rose his glass to that. "Amen!"

"I never got on with them." He examined his glass with a dramatically silent look. "Although, there is one lady I am grateful for."  
Lestrade got to the edge of his seat and his chin cupped in his hand.

"My secretary. She does so much for me. And she's great at her job too."

"Yeah, always kidnaps me with punctuality."  
Mycroft pulled out his phone, grateful for the fact he hadn't smashed it earlier, and dialled.

"Good evening Anthea. No, I don't require your services right now, I just wanted to wish you a happy New Year's Eve. I wanted you to know, you're the best secretary, the _best_ secretary anyone could have, and I," Mycroft was losing his calm, "and you are so precious to me... _you make me bisexual_ , my love, and-" everyone's faces twisted with confusion, "Er, just a few, a few glasses."

"Did you hear that?!" Lestrade jumped out of his chair and looked like a deer being hunted, startled.

"I don't think there's anything there."

"No! Outside!"

"Greg, there's nothing there- What are you doing? Greg, don't. It's going to get-" Lestrade flung the window wide open. A strong and immensely cold gush of the blizzard came in and everyone began yelling at the officer. John closed the window behind Lestrade as he pulled out his phone.

"Better inform everybody," he began typing, "Dangerous... Criminal... On loose... Much... Threat... To child...ren."

"You're going to worry the entire department!"

"Well they should be John! What if," he began flailing his arms, "what if your wife, and your kids, all were out there?"

"Well, his wife's right here!" Mycroft and Lestrade, new best friends for life let out a bellow. John grunted.

"You know what Lestrade? Your entire department is useless. Let _me_ help you." Mycroft also got up, kept his glass down after searching for the table, and straightened his pants. "Get me my umbrella."

"Oh no Mycroft, what are you going to do?"

"Do you really think the 1960s had film effects good enough?"

"I'm sorry what?" Lestrade brought him his umbrella.

"Mary Poppins was real!" He pushed past John to fly out through the window,

"Mycroft what the hell!" Luckily John could grab him by the waist before he could find the balance to lift his leg up to the window sill.

"NO Mycroft! _You can't fly out the window just because you've got an umbrella!_ "

"Dear me, what all have I missed? An _umbrella?_ " The situation would make for a very confusing scenario for anyone who'd just walked in, like Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson!" They all cheered.

"Oh thank _god_ you're back! Could you help me out with all these drunks?"

"It's past midnight, so I'll put them all to sleep then, like the little kids they are." She giggled. "Alrighty, John gets his own room, Sherlock and Mycroft could share a bed, and I wouldn't want Lestrade to throw his back out on the sofa, so he could come over to my room-"

"The sofa's good," Lestrade seemed to be sobering up.

"Oh, I was just teasing you. Come, let me tuck the brothers in." She had to lead the brothers by their hands to Sherlock's room. Meanwhile, Lestrade grabbed his blanket and fell asleep on the sofa upon contact. John went to his room, closed the door, and gave out a deep, relieving sigh. He felt drunk, but definitely not as drunk as anyone else. The bed looked more comfortable than ever.

* * *

  
"John? John!"

"Huh?" The sleeping man was shaken awake.

"Oh good, you're up." Sherlock slowly stumbled onto the other side of the bed. "The very presence of Mycroft is repulshive. I need to burn my mattress."

"Let's not do that right now." John turned his back to Sherlock and tried to go back to sleep. Sherlock stumbled a bit more and shuffled inside the blanket until he felt comfortable, which didn't happen for a long time. John tried to tune him out. That is, until Sherlock came so close to John he could hear him breath close to his ear. His companion with no respect for personal space whatsoever splayed a long leg and arm over John. "Sherlock..."

"It's cold, Jaaaaawn."

"You can't be serious-" Sherlock pulled him closer to himself. He even began playing with his hair a bit.

"You're a good friend, John." Sherlock kissed the back of his head. "You're the best." He squeezed him tighter.  
John couldn’t help but wonder when he’d be sober. At least not until morning, he prospected.

 


End file.
